Exes (Billionaire Romance #3)

by Aria Hawthorne

  “There,” he said, proudly inspecting his purchases. “Cotton candy and Minnie Mouse. What else does a girl need to get her through a tough time?”

  “Chocolate,” the sales clerk chimed in.

  Harvey glanced at Alma, checking to see if it was true.

  “I ate a ton of dark chocolate after our divorce,” she admitted. “Conchita used to bring it over at the end of every work week.”

  “Oh, me too,” the sales clerk sympathized. “Sometimes it was the only thing I ate for dinner. Besides three glasses of wine.”

  Alma bobbed her head in agreement. Harvey had his man code. Women had their divorcée code.

  Harvey swiped a handful of Ring Pops from the candy basket and tossed them onto the counter. “Okay, then. We’ll add five dark chocolate Ring Pops. One for each finger.”

  The clerk rung up the register. “That will be $8.65. Would you like a bag?”

  “Wait—” Alma interjected. “Can we add one more thing?”

  The sales clerk nodded. “Of course.”

  “That headband, please.”

  “The one with the red plastic horns?”

  “Yep.” Alma accepted the headband from the clerk and slipped it onto Harvey’s head.

  “What? The halo didn’t speak to you?” he quipped.

  “Nope,” she said, turning him towards the wall mirror. “What do you think?”

  “I think I also need a pair of sunglasses.” He removed a pair with chrome-tinted lens from the nearby rack and added them to their bounty.

  “Twenty-five forty-two,” the sales clerk said, finalizing the total and sweeping everything into a small plastic bag.

  Harvey traded the hundred-dollar bill for the bag then dumped all the change into the tip jar. “And just for the record,” he said to the sales clerk, “no man is worth the stomach ache of eating only chocolate for dinner. Next time, at least order carry-out.”

  He stuffed an extra hundred into the fishbowl before strutting his devil horns and obnoxious sunglasses in front of the women. “Now, what do you think?”

  “I think we have a better chance now of getting stopped by security,” Alma quipped.

  “Good,” he said, offering her the crook of his arm. “That’s exactly how I like to roll.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  They stood outside the door of the hospital chapel, waiting…

  Harvey wasn’t sure for what, but he knew better than to rush her.

  “What if we go in there and we find it?” she finally said.

  “Easy,” he replied. “We suddenly become millions of dollars richer and you have to agree to marry me again. I’m way more concerned about what happens if we don’t.”

  “So am I.” Alma held up her hand and pressed it against the surface of the door, as if she was sensing whether or not to push through it or walk away forever.

  “You know…there’s no shame in believing in fairy tales,” Harvey offered, knowing she was the type of girl who put too much stock in trying and failing rather than the joy of trying at all. “Even if there’s no hidden Tiffany window on the other side of this door, the journey still took us pretty damn far.” He lifted her hand into his own and feathered his lips against her inner wrist.

  She eyed his kiss. “A surprise out-of-wedlock pregnancy and a ruined hundred-million-dollar business deal? That’s not exactly your traditional fairy tale.”

  “Traditional is boring and overrated. I much prefer our version of happily ever after—a baby conceived during mad crazy make-up sex and a chance to prove my penile prowess through sleepless nights of bottle feedings and changing dirty diapers.”

  “We’ll see about that.” Skeptical, she crossed her arms. “I’ve seen you with only three hours of sleep, and it usually ends with you dozing off on the toilet and me struggling with whether or not to leave you there.”

  “Which is why you’re the only woman in the world who I want to marry. No one else has ever had to consider such a dilemma.”

  “So, are we really going to do this?”

  “You mean shatter our little storybook fairy tale?” He stared at the door, wondering if it was worth it to pass over its threshold. “I dunno…but I’m pretty certain as long as we’re together, we’ll find another one to believe in.”

  She smiled at him. “Promise?”

  “Promise,” he replied, resolute in every way.

  Armed with the assurance of his support, she took a deep breath and nodded at the door. He complied, pushing it open and allowing her to enter first.

  Untouched.

  It was the first word that came to his mind as he followed her into the dim room resembling his grandmother’s bedroom from the fifties. He half-expected votive candles and heavy wall tapestries depicting each religion’s version of life ever after, but there was none of that. It was distinctly spare and non-denominational with a few chairs arranged around the perimeter and a few bas-relief wooden carvings—symbols of some of the world’s most popular faiths—hanging on the taupe walls. And, of course, there was also a stained-glass window. But Harvey didn’t need to be an expert to know that it was contemporary in its design and amateur in its execution—a triple-paneled folding window with frosted opaque glass illuminated by floor lights and dominated by swirls of robin’s egg blue and canary yellow. Safe, secular, and absolutely the opposite of everything they had hoped would fulfill their quest.

  Alma surveyed the window. Even though he had known her a long time, he had only seen that fragile expression of disillusionment on her face twice in his life. Once—now, as she absorbed the disappointing finality of their journey, and the other time when he had consciously broken his promise to salvage the windows from his riverfront parcel the morning after they had made love in the Palmer House honeymoon suite.

  He drifted up behind her and encircled her waist.

  “Not exactly what we were expecting, huh?” he said, leaning his chin over her shoulder.

  “Nope,” she whispered, allowing him to tighten his embrace, a mutual sign that it would somehow still be all okay. “I don’t know why I kept believing…” Her voice trailed off, as if the disappointment and embarrassment was too much to bear.

  “Listen…if you never dream, not even a little, then you’ll never seek out anything worth finding.”

  She shot him a glare. “Did you read that in a fortune cookie?”

  “Nope. Learned it from my wife.”

  “Ex-wife,” she wise-cracked. “We didn’t find it.”

  “A man can still dream.”

  Her mouth spread into that enigmatic smile, the one that hinted she was warming up to anything he might propose—and getting warmer.

  Then, with a curious look of wonderment, her eyes shifted from his face to something above his forehead.

  “It’s the devil horns. Admit it. You can’t agree to remarry a man who flagrantly wears devil horns, right?”

  But she didn’t answer. Instead, she reached out into the air, attempting to touch something mysteriously floating through it. When he glanced up, there was nothing to see, except dancing glints of color reflecting off her palm. They both turned to follow the source of the light—an unexpected ray clearing the top of the amateur stained-glass window.

  “Harvey? Why is my hand green and purple and red when there’s no green, purple, or red in that window?”

  She was right. It was either the strangest of optical illusions, or there was something peculiar and unexpected behind the amateur stained-glass window.

  “Because you—and your witchy ways—always seem to make magical things like that happen.”

  He craned his head above the window, seeking out the source of the colored light. When he couldn’t get a good look, he tested its side panels, forcibly folding back its right flap and producing a tiny sliver of space.

  Alma peeked into it.

  “Do you see anything?” Harvey asked.

  “Yes,” she confirmed. “It looks like there’s something back there, but I
need a better look.”

  “Well…here’s your chance to investigate it now, because in six months, you’re not going to be able to fit back there.”

  Alma raised her arms, held her breath and flattened her chest as far as she could in order to squeeze her petite figure through the opening.

  Harvey peered into the crevice, but he could barely make out the silhouette of something built into the exterior wall. He waited another minute, whistling a ragtime tune to keep himself company, before calling over the top of the amateur window as if he was checking on her from outside a dressing room.

  “Everything okay in there?”

  “You’re not going to believe me if I tell you,” she finally answered.

  He smiled. “Probably not. But you can try me.”

  Without warning, his phone buzzed in his pocket. He retrieved it and saw the text from CONTESSA. Fitting, he thought, as he gazed down at the image on its screen, slowly absorbing the significance of what she had sent him. Something more stunning in its mastery and artistry than he could remember seeing in all his life.

  “That’s it, isn’t it.” He surveyed the picture of the stained-glass window, portraying a glowing unearthly woman in a flowing scarlet cloak within a midnight garden illuminated by shimmering pale blue waves of moonlight. It shone with the scintillating brilliance of rubies, emeralds, diamonds, amethysts and aquamarines, and for a moment, Harvey wondered if Tiffany had actually melded bits of priceless gemstones within the opalescent glass.

  I can’t speak, she texted back.

  He smiled again. His hopelessly romantic, Contessa.

  You know, we don’t have to leave anytime soon, he texted back, knowing the picture likely couldn’t compare to the overwhelming experience of finally standing in front of it. You can just stay there…drooling for a while.

  He heard a burst of laughter through her silent tears. It had been an emotional day. Hell, an emotional year. And it was finally coming to an end.

  Harvey glanced up at the ceiling. The flickering pattern of colored light ebbed and flowed across it like rippling waves until it slowly faded away.

  The light just changed.

  Just saw that.

  That’s probably why no one knows what it is. She sent him another text with a picture. This time, he could barely make out an image within the window, tinted almost black.

  Pretty hard to discover a priceless Tiffany stained-glass window if it’s hidden in the dark unless you’re the smartest glass antiques expert in Chicago.

  I don’t think we should tell anyone about it.

  He re-read her text, knowing she would want to guard the secret.

  Fair enough, he replied. We can just pretend we never found it. On one condition…

  What’s that? she flung back.

  He lifted a chocolate Ring Pop out of the bag, unwrapped it, and shoved it through the narrow opening. You say yes.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  SIX MONTHS LATER

  Harvey sat across from Alma in their usual old-fashioned booth in one of her favorite confectionaries on Chicago’s West Side, and watched as she devoured her weekly treat—banana split ice cream sundae.

  They had visited there every week since the end of her first trimester. He ordered one ice cream sundae for her and a chocolate malt for himself. She had cravings and only the ice cream parlor’s signature hot chocolate sauce and extra whipped cream did the trick.

  But for that visit, they were there for more than just the ice cream. They had an agenda. Their baby’s due date was looming and they still needed to agree on baby names.

  “Okay, I’m going to start with boys’ names because I’m pretty certain we’re having a boy.”

  “Oh really?” Alma said, stuffing her mouth with the maraschino cherry and a spoonful of whipped cream, officially starting her indulgence of the sugary temple of gluttonous bliss. “How can you be so sure?” She drew her agile tongue across the spoon, lapping up every last bit of cream off of it.

  Harvey made a mental note: buy more whipped cream. They still made love every week, even when she pretended she didn’t want to, because he knew that it relieved more than swollen feet and achy joints. Especially when it involved whipped cream.

  “Because you’re big and buxom and beautiful, and I’m certain it’s all because you’re carrying my tank of a son.”

  “I think the only reason you think it’s a boy is because you want to name him Harvey Jr.”

  “Not true. I know you’re not thrilled with that option, so I’ve been hard at work coming up with alternatives.”

  Harvey took out a sheet of paper from his pocket, unfolded it, and cleared his throat. Confidently, he delivered the first name on his list. “Ivan.”

  She scoffed. “As in…The Terrible?”

  “Well, that’s your association with it,” he insisted.

  “And six centuries of history.”

  “So, is that a veto?”

  “Veto,” she muttered through a solid barrier of ice cream, just to make sure he understood her. Harvey thought having the baby discussion over ice cream would soften Alma’s resolve to hate every one of his picks. Clearly, he was wrong.

  He cleared his throat again and leapt. “Boris.”

  She looked at him like he had sworn at her. “You really expect me to name our child Boris?”

  “Now, don’t shoot it down yet before you give it a fair shot. It’s short, memorable, and it fits the profile of a chubby baby. Even an ugly one.”

  Alma dropped the spoon out of her mouth. “You’re expecting us to have an ugly baby?”

  He fell silent, realizing he’d just shoveled himself into Stupidsville—again. It was likely the reason she hadn’t officially agreed to remarry him.

  “I’m simply covering all our options.”

  “Veto,” she punctuated, striking out that option.

  He nodded. He deserved that one. “Okay, how about this one—Anton.”

  “As in Chekhov? That’s a bit too literary—even for me. Plus, I’m not a fan of Three Sisters.”

  Harvey scrambled to find a replacement on his list. “Okay, here then…Baryshnikov.”

  She eyed him, sensing something questionable about his list. “You do realize Baryshnikov is a famous Russian ballet dancer, right?”

  “Hmm,” he chewed on the revelation. “I didn’t. But he seemed like a pretty famous dude and his name was hard to spell, so I went with it.”

  Her black eyes narrowed on him. “You intentionally googled the most famous Russian names in history so that Harvey Jr. would seem like a great option in comparison.”

  Honestly, he thought she would have caught on even quicker than that. “I’ll only admit to googling names and maybe including a few that I couldn’t pronounce.”

  Alma sighed and pushed away her empty ice cream sundae dish. “You really want Harvey Jr. that much? And what happens if it’s a girl?”

  “Easy.” Harvey nudged the tray of extra chocolate sauce in front of her. “Harvette.”

  She snorted with scorn. “I am so not marrying a man who wants to name our daughter Harvette. And I’m pretty sure every woman on the planet would back me up on that.”

  She drove her spoon into the extra chocolate sauce and swirled it around her tongue, just to take the edge off. It was a good thing, too. Otherwise, Harvey was pretty certain she might threaten to divorce him again before they even had a chance to remarry.

  “You know, we could just get rid of fifty percent of this baby name conflict by finding out the sex of the baby in advance.”

  Alma looked at him like he had just climbed up onto the table and stomped on her sundae.

  Stupidsville.

  “You know what?” Harvey said, attempting to redeem himself. “Let’s forget I ever said it. I love endlessly bantering about baby names with you. So, c’mon...let’s see what’s on your list.”

  Accepting the challenge, Alma set down her spoon with a firm clank. She dug through her purse and pulled
out her own list, scrawled onto a miniature napkin. Their eyes locked, like two competitors battling for the World’s Best Baby Name Championship.

  “Dickens,” she finally pronounced.

  “V-e-t-o,” he flung back in faux slow motion.

  “What, just like that? You can’t veto a name without even considering it.”

  “Hmmmmmmm,” he pondered, feigning consideration. “Nope. Still veto.”

  She refused to surrender. “Charles Dickens is one of the greatest novelists of all time.”

  “Sorry. My kid is not having Dick anywhere in his name—period. It’s man code.”

  She heaved another sigh of disgust. This one, distinctly familiar. She hated his man code and she wanted to make sure he knew it. He did, but he also knew he was saving their child from years of adolescent locker room mockery, and that was completely worth it.

  “Fine…” she acquiesced, scanning the rest of her list and settling on a second place contender. “Jameson.”

  “Nice, but too alcoholic. Veto.”

  “Copperfield.”

  “As in the magician?”

  “David Copperfield,” she stressed.

  “As in the magician?” he repeated.

  Exasperated, she rolled her eyes and jumped down to the very end of her list.

  “Heathcliff,” she said resolutely.

  Harvey snorted through his malt straw. “You gave me flack for Boris, but you seriously expect me to greenlight, Heathcliff? Veto.”

  She refolded the napkin and glared at him. “This is why I haven’t married you.”

  “Because I won’t let you name our child, Heathcliff?”

  “Yes.”

  Harvey knew it was her hormones talking and not his impassioned, emotional, pregnant lover. But he also knew there was some truth in it.

  “Well, what happens if it’s a girl?” he said, flipping her question back onto her

  “Then I thought we could consider…”

  “Harvette?” he interjected slyly because she was too cute in her maternity overalls flecked with stray chocolate sauce not to tease her.